


Judy Barton in Missoula (Leland Says You’re Going Back)

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Series: Back in Your Bed [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Madness, Mind Games, Squick, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dawn and Wesley maintain their private illusions. Sequel to Ursula.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Judy Barton in Missoula (Leland Says You’re Going Back)

Little sister’s playing dress-up now, a whole wardrobe of shiny new clothes presented to her by her knight in shining armor. They’re all so pretty, so expensive, and he says she’s beautiful as she tries all of them on one by one.

“Not that one,” he says tonight, watching from the overstuffed leather armchair. He’s so gorgeous. Perfect for her. He’d wash her feet in blood and rosewater. Wes knows how to treat a woman, and Dawn’s too happy to be the woman he’s treating. She’ll even wear the clothes he wants and not ask too many questions.

“But I like this one,” Dawn replies, twirling. Armani, DKNY, Prada, all the stuff she could only afford if she got it at a five-finger discount in the old days. Back when that was wrong, wrong, wrong, and a cry for attention.

Now she doesn’t ask, and it doesn’t matter. She wants it. He gets it for her. Because he’s her guy.

“The blue top,” Wesley says sternly. “Dawn, don’t be petulant–”

She puts the blue top on and wishes she could see how she looked. But no more mirrors for little sis. Maybe that’s for the best. She’d cried and cried at how short he’d had the hairdressers cut her hair, and the blonde streaks he painted in himself. But then Wesley had made it up to her: a dozen roses and the flower girl for dinner.

The best kills were still the Potentials, those invading little bitches. Dawn had loved it, listening to all the special special girls scream when she took them out like they were nothing at all. The weakest baby vamp could take them out; some potential _they_ had.

Spike had been right (had Spike told her this story?). The blood of a Slayer was a powerful aphrodisiac. Little sister had almost fallen right into her sire’s lap (sire. Father? That was creepy. Incest badness. Just Wes was best. Her Wes now) when he’d offered her a taste of girl after girl, squealing, crying.

They’d waited for Angelus to finish Buffy. Bad smirky annoying Angelus, but that was only fair. And Wes had told him to beat it afterward, go find Faith or something. Which probably Angelus did, because Angelus was so the type who would break into a prison just to eat Faith even though there was a whole world of emerging darkness to feed on.

Dawn thinks she should maybe feel bad about Buffy. Buffy was her sister. But Buffy had been–oh, Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Dawn was sick of Buffy and her speeches and there had been something about the whole experience…

_”It’s better this way,” Wesley had promised Dawn, pulling Buffy’s neck back. “The First can’t prey on the weakness in the Slayer line if Buffy’s dead. And you don’t want the world to suffer, do you?”_

“How’s this?” Dawn asks, adjusting the blue top. There’s a faint miasma to it. This belonged to someone else, someone human. She likes the perfume, the smell of woman making her veins ache for their next meal, but the set-up makes her curiosity itch. “Do I look right now?”

High heels. The nicest nylons Dawn has ever seen, fresh out of the package. Givenchy. Slim skirt, made for someone with more hips and butt than Dawn, but not all THAT much more. Blue top, silk weave. Suit jacket. Curls in her hair and Chanel behind her ears.

Wesley stands up. His smile is sharp and bitter, as though there’s some kind of joke. Dawn hates that smile. Usually Wes is cooler; he treats her like–well, not like a fairy princess. Like an equal. Someone he enjoys and appreciates. Right now he’s looking at her like…

“Alfred Hitchcock would not be amused at the sacrilege,” Wes says cryptically, walking toward her with that look in his eye and Dawn smiles and thinks of feasting. The taste of sweet blood on her lips and Wes running his fingers up and down her arm, asking her if she’s had enough yet. He says she’s greedy. Maybe she is. “Though he would understand.”

“Where are we going to go tonight?” Dawn asks. She’s not sure who Hitchcock is. The fat guy who did the movies, like, um. The Birds. The monks didn’t make her a movie buff, though, so it’s beyond her. “I mean, I got all dressed up. We’re going to go show off, aren’t we?”

Wes shakes his head and inclines his head to her neck, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. Dawn shivers. He makes her crazy. Dress her up to keep her in? And then those kisses! God, he always made her all shivery and happy with the kisses.

“I have a present for you in the living room,” he murmurs, pulling her hair away from her face. “And then I thought we’d finish the game we’re playing.”

“Is she young?” Dawn asks, leaning against her literal demon lover and feeling hot and cold the way that she wouldn’t have ever guessed as a silly little girl. “Is she pretty?”

“Very pretty. Exactly the sort of thing you prefer,” he answers, leading her toward the living room.

Sometimes Dawn thinks that perhaps Wes doesn’t quite see her. That he dresses her up and undresses her with some other picture in his head. He makes it so good, from the taste of blood to the feeling when he puts his head right there and licks, but it’s all a game to him. He puts her in braids and kisses her gently, telling her that no one will ever hurt her again. He dresses her in expensive suits and rips them all off and makes it hurt and makes it so hot and good that Dawn can’t help but scream and beg for more. He puts her in red lingerie and they eat schoolchildren.

Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t know her at all.

But the girl on the floor–- oh, the girl on the floor. Exactly what she likes. Everything she wants. Blonde hair, hazel eyes, snub nose, skinny and short and frail-looking.

Maybe Wesley knows her better than she thinks, as Dawn giggles and approaches her present.

“You approve?” he asks, a knowing look in his eye.

“Duh,” Dawn replies, licking her lips and turning to the girl. “Hey, big sister. What’s your name?”

The girl shivers. Wes kneels next to her. “I believe Dawn asked you a question,” he says in that voice that’s so soft and gentle and makes Dawn’s stomach thrill. “Tell her your name.”

“H-h-hannah,” the blonde girl whimpers, hands and ankles bound. “Please don’t kill me.”

“It’s not Hannah,” Dawn says, lifting the girl with one hand. “It’s Buffy. Your name is Buffy and you’re my sister.”

Tears stream down Buffy’s face. They always do. “I don’t know you! You’re not my–”

“Yes, I am,” Dawn says. “And I’m going to make it all better. Because you’re my sister and I love you.”

_“You’re not my sister!” Buffy cries, and Dawn rocks her back and forth, taking them down, down, down. “Dawnie, don’t. Dawn–“_

Just the way that Wes loves me, she thinks, giving the girl a kiss before tearing her throat out. Just. Like. That.

 


End file.
